


Swing

by Kyraelii



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Runawaystuck, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:59:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyraelii/pseuds/Kyraelii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Runawaystuck drabble(ish?). Dave spends an all-too-common night at the speakeasy with John, with an unexpected new ending.</p><p>--<br/>If people enjoy this, I may write a second chapter or more!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swing

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I listen to the "Swing" Pandora station all day due to History class. I hope you all like it! Who knows, it might even turn to full on smut later if I continue.

Yup, it's official. Today has been completely horrible.

You decide this while mulling over your drink, ice clinking on glass as you swirl the caramel-colored alcohol around. It's tempting to take another sip, but it burns like hell and you really don't feel like puking it up tomorrow. Why did you even come to the speakeasy tonight, anyways?

A boisterous laugh followed by a tittering feminine giggle invades your bitter thoughts, and you withhold a sigh. Right, that was why.

John had dragged you along with him to the place, insisting that you needed to get out more often because "you're only 22 for so long, Dave!" Seriously, if the bucktoothed guy didn't take you places, you'd probably just rot on your ass at home. It's not really like people would miss you, anyways. Most folks are still intimidated by humanimals despite the recent influx of them in the bustling streets of Seattle. Sure, you don't have a giant ass claw for a hand like Karkat, but your charcoal digitigrade feet and similarly colored padded hands tend to scare people off, thanks to the impressive talons they sport. And that's excluding your crowlike wings and tailfeathers, which only add to your freaky appearance.

It's hard, being a part-bird-man. It's hard and nobody understands.

Perhaps the richest part of the whole "getting out more often" deal is that every time without fail, almost as soon as he sits you down at the bar, John is pulled onto the dance floor by one of the many smiling young women in their well fitting dresses, short as is the day's clothing fashion. And that just leaves you where you are now: seated alone at the bar, slouched in your seat with your shoulders hunched and wings folded as you nurse your hooch.

Shifting, you cast a glance back over your shoulder to see John dancing to swing with a pretty blonde girl. It's easy to see why the women adore him, too; dressed in tan baggy trousers and a white suit shirt with the sleeves bunched to above his elbows, and followed by a deep blue single-breasted vest to top it off, he cuts a handsome figure. His midnight black hair is tousled, toeing the line of unruliness but complimenting the lightly tanned face that seems to be stuck in an almost eternal cheery mood, and his large square glasses actually compliment him. His eyes gleam with youth in a breathtaking cobalt blue that puts your own mutated red orbs to shame. (Or anyone else's eyes, really.) John just radiates this warm, friendly energy that the girls love. Coupled with his boyish good looks, and he's so handsome it could just break a girl's heart. He was the polar opposite of you, a scrawny, awkward man with a pale complexion topped by a mess of light blond hair that really shouldn't be as messy as it is, but you don't care. Also, you're rambling.

The blonde says something you can't quite make out over the band's upbeat tune, and John laughs that genuine laugh of his again as he pulls her closer. Your heart twists painfully, and your fingers tighten around the drink.

Yeah, it's not just girls' hearts your best friend breaks.

With a sigh, you face your liquor and take a long swig. The searing fire down your throat immediately makes you regret it, but you feel like shit anyways. So you just grimace as you set the nearly empty glass down, hopefully for the last time tonight.

To be honest with yourself, you're glad that you and Egbert managed to remain friends after the awkward event of you asking him to a dinner and his full rejection. It was stupid, thinking John would say yes. He clearly wasn't into guys, and the constant flirtatious advances from women on him should have made that obvious to you. The look of distasteful shock on his face--that goofy smile gone for once--had been a lance through your chest, shattering your ego that was kept far more delicate than anyone knew. Not even John realizes just how fragile you are, you don't think.

Needless to say, the two of you didn't talk for a couple weeks after that. Every time you passed him in the house you both shared, he averted his gaze or made himself appear to be busy with other things. One time, upon him coming home to find you curled in your chair only days after the rejection, the two of you shared a shocked silent stare. Then  his face had turned a deep red, and he had turned and left without saying anything. It hurt more than it had any right to.

Now, though, it's been almost five months, and the two of you are back to the old routine. That doesn't mean it hurt any less, of course, but life doesn't let you bitch about your problems forever. Time for you to move on.

Just as you finish that thought, a dark haired girl slides into the seat next to you. This would normally make you nervous, if the petite woman with bright green eyes and brilliant smile wasn't so familiar. Besides, the white furred dog ears adorning her head kind of make the name "Jade Harley" well known, if her friendly personality didn't already. You give her a sidelong glance, since it's pretty obvious she's here to talk to you. Usually she keeps Karkat company around here, since she seems to be the only person unaffected by his crabby personality.

(Ha, crabby. You're a goddam comedian.)

Her smile is subdued, canine ears lowered a bit from their usual perky position. You can feel your feathers bristle a fraction as you easily read her mood. She's fucking sympathetic. She must have seen you watching John like the creep you are.

Of course you had told Jade about your whole major crush on Egbert, and she had been more than happy that you liked him. She squealed something about it being "just like in the books!!" before giving you a big hug. She had been a huge help after the falling out. Suffice to say, she was your go-to companion in the first couple months after the rejection, supplying you with comforting words and hugs. Lots of hugs. She really likes hugs. You think it's the dog part of her.

She reaches out, covering your avian-warped hand with her own delicate one. You remain limp and settle for staring at her hand, irrational envy curling in your gut. Maybe if you were a girl, he would have said yes.

"Hey, how are ya?" It's painful, the sympathy in her gentle voice. You try to resist the urge to snap at her.

"Fuckin' peachy over here, can't you tell?" You fail. Horribly.

You are not a people person.

Still, she smiles. She knows you all too well. "Come on, you can't let him get you down forever! Even Karkat is starting to get worried!"

"Vantas? Why the hell does he care?"

A shrug. "You're our friend too, Dave! We worry about you."

"John doesn't."

Oops, her smile is gone and you're getting a glare now. "Dave, you know that's stupid. He cares a lot about you!"

Now it's your turn to shrug. Christ, that look she's giving you is terrifying, but you're not about to let her know that. "I guess."

Jade lets out an exasperated sigh, hand pulling away so she can throw both of hers into the air in a frustrated gesture. "Jeez, would you let it go? It happened, okay?? But you never know what might happen, so stop being so  _sad!_ I swear, Strider, you can be such a birdbrain sometimes!"

The pun makes your ashen-colored nose wrinkle in distaste. You simply give a dismissive wave. "Yeah, yeah. Fuckin' hilarious. I'm internally laughing my ass off here. Can you leave me alone now?"

Green eyes narrow on you, and automatically your pale shoulders hunch further. Jade is one of your nicest friends, but that doesn't mean she's all bark. (You're going to hell for these puns.) You've seen her talk sweetly to a child, then gun down an entire gang less than half an hour later. And you wish that was an exaggeration.

"Fine," she growls with her ears flat on her head. "Just go and pout, then!" The short girl doesn't wait for your reply and shoves herself away from the bar. Your eyes follow her for a moment, then drop to your hands curled on the wooden counter. You really suck at talking to people, especially about feelings. Such endeavors usually end badly, like this did. Guilt bubbles up in you only seconds later, and you eye the drink again.

But getting wasted won't solve your problems. You exhale a sigh through your nose that disturbs a few wispy strands of your near-platinum hair before standing, finally looking around the speakeasy. It's just that time of night for the place to be full, people of all kinds bustling about for their share of illegal alcohol or swinging to the jazz that thrums through the air. The crowd parts briefly, and you catch a glimpse of a familiar man laughing as he spins the blonde woman in his arms.

Your throat aches more than burns as you turn, grumbling at nobody in particular as you push away from the bar towards the exit. Surely you've had enough torture for tonight. Now, you can go home and sleep, because you swear to god it must be past midnight by now.

It's a difficult task, keeping your wings so tightly tucked against your back while simultaneously dodging the feet of the people pushing against you  in the crowd. Shoes stamping on bare bird feet has proven to be painful, believe it or not. In one case, it even broke one of your damn toes. Fortunately for the rather large man who caused said injury, your screech of enraged pain had given your friends enough time to grab you before you managed to rip his throat out. Everybody by those friends avoided you for a while after that.

You finally manage to escape the worst of the raucous mob, and the door is visible to you now. Actually, it's just behind the stairs on your right. A tired relief washes through you as you make your way to the exit. Just another night to put behind you.

"Dave!"

 _Oh no_.

You freeze at the sound of someone calling your name. That deep, familiar baritone that sends a thrill down your spine like no other, and hey look at that, your stomach just fucking plummeted to the floor.

"Dave! Hey, wait!"

Goddamnit, you're not getting out of this easily. You sigh as you turn to face the speaker, shoulders slumped in resignation. "Hey, Egbert."

John has caught up to you easily, already through the crowd. He smiles as he walks nearer, why is he so damn tall? You straighten a little; you're a few inches taller than him with your avian feet, but an eternal slouch keeps you looking shorter than your friend. It frustrates you how he's just tall enough to loom over you like this, especially if he pressed you against the wall and maybe--fuck, he's talking again.

"What did you say?"

"I asked," he begins again with a chuckle, "just where do you think you're going? It's only 11, Dave! We've still got plenty of time to hang out here."

11? Damn. You're getting old if you're already starting to be tired at this time. Maybe 22 is just your lazy year. Yeah. But you don't want to look as if you're running from John, because you  _aren't_ , so you give a noncommittal shrug. Lots of shrugging tonight. "I ain't leaving, don't worry. Just gonna go get some air. The smoke is starting to hurt my throat." That's true enough. This place always starts to reek of cigars when the people flock in, and the smoke has never really agreed with you. The one time you tried a cigar, you inhaled much deeper than was probably right and found your lungs full of fucking fire. You'd immediately regretted it and had a coughing fit, nearly throwing up in the process of getting the damn smoke out of your throat. You've never trusted cigars again.

John's expression dims, then brightens once again. "Hey, that's no problem. Come on, I'll take you up to the second floor! There's plenty of room up there, and we can head back downstairs once you feel better."

Yeah, your stomach is through the floor now. So much for escaping. You were planning on getting out of this by going outside... Egbert probably knew that, being the clever man he was. How could he be so thickheaaded as to not see your sulking, then? Wait, you aren't sulking. You're just going home to sleep. Yep. But, it looks like that plan isn't going to work now. Your best friend smiles oh-so-innocently as he takes you by the arm and pulls you to the stairs. You comply with little restraint, due to a mixture of apathy and the fact that while he doesn't look the part, John is really fucking strong. It's shocking and really unfair.

Your padded toes are heavy but barely make a sound on the floor as the two of you make your way upstairs, and he leaves the door open to let the light trail in from below. They haven't really designed the top floor of this speakeasy just yet, so it's basically just a floor and four walls. The light visible is dim from the doorway, and it's actually easier to make things out in the moonlight. Egbert is a stark silhouette, standing in front of you. He walks over to one of the large windows where the moonlight pours in, lighting his features in the most handsome way possible because fuck it all if life didn't enjoy punching you in the gut. You, on the other hand, move to stand awkwardly near the center of the room, arms folded over the ruddy red sleeveless shirt you adore and would never part ways with.

You cast a glance at the open door, the noise of the people hard to decipher from this far away. it's mostly silent, save the jazz music that somehow manages to follow you even in here. Oh well. It's pretty snazzy, even if you can't dance for shit.

"What about blondie," you ask out of completely innocent curiosity, looking at the wall, out the windows, at your own feet. Anywhere but at him.

"What, the girl?" He makes a funny scoffing noise, and it shouldn't be as cute as it is. "Come on, man."

"She seemed your type. You know, she..." you trail off, chewing your lip. "...She's got great hooters?"

He laughs, the first man you've met who actually laughs at your perverted sense of humor. "Yeah, there's that. Because I'm all about shallowness and what's on the outside, Dave!"

 _Well that's how it worked for me_ , you think, but bite the words before they even have the chance to form on your tongue. You're just being petty about it now. John didn't reject you beause of that. Whining about it would solve nothing but make him go away. And that's really the last thing you want right now. There's not really that much time that the two of you share together alone anymore, in light of recent events. So this is nice, and you don't want to fuck it up with your stupid mouth.

Instead, you remain quiet and let the slow music fill the room as a singer drawls words that you don't really know, since you sort of tune it out. 

"What about you?"

You blink, the question throwing you off-guard. Facing your friend, you find him facing you now. It makes it so you can't really see his face, thanks to the silhouette he casts. "What about me?"

You can almost hear his smile. "Well, you've gotta have been asked to dance at least a few times!"

The topic is so painfully close, you veer away from it with all your willpower and simply shrug for perhaps the millionth time tonight. "I don't dance." It's true, and it's good enough. You think John frowns at that, but all he does is grunt before turning back to the window. You close your eyes and wish you were home so you could stretch your wings and relax.

"You know, I could teach you."

A surprised noise breaks from your throat before you can control yourself, red eyes filled with what is no doubt utter bemusement snapping open to look at your friend, who has turned to face you now. "Wait,  _what?_ "

Dammit, he looks completely unfazed. He even fucking laughs. And--shit, he's walking up to you and yeah he just took your hand oh god what is happening why is he pulling you to the very center of the room. What. You blink rapidly, all notion of understanding events kicked clear out the window. "Just," he says with a gentle smile that you can barely see in the darkness, "follow my lead, okay?"

He must have planned perfectly, because just as he says this the band finishes playing one song and moves to another. This isn't as fast as the last one, but it's still upbeat swing jazz, and you think that this is probably the worst idea ever as John pulls you in to dance. 

The two of you discover something relatively quick. You were gifted with many things. Razor sharp talons. Impressive, usable wings. A knack for whistling like no other and the ability to understand birds, too.

You were not gifted with the ability to dance.

The first few minutes is just John tugging you along while you flounder in a desperate attempt to keep up, wings loosening and even fluttering every now and then when your balance wavers due to an overzealous tug of John's hand. You don't really know where the hell things took such a turn,  but you can't really pay attention long enough to the annoyed voice in your head to legitimately pay attention. Sorry, too busy getting my dance-handicapped ass handed to me by Egbert, please leave a note for me later.

You step on his feet constantly, blabbering an apology every time while he laughs it off. You're sure it doesn't actually hurt, given that you're barefoot and he isn't, but you still feel like you need to say sorry for it. The loud flare of the saxophone is followed by John trying to spin you, to which you let out an indignant squawk because woah hey what was he trying to do treat you like a girl? Well, actually... that wasn't all too bad. It allowed you a false illusion as John tried so desperately to make you dance.

This awkward exchange continues for a bit until you begrudgingly start to get the hang of it, a smile hinting at your usually neutral or grumpy visage as you watch John beam with his attempts to get you to dance. The whole thing is pretty stupid, but it's nice to see him so happy.

There's a point where he actually almost steps on your feet, but he pulls you out of the way in the nick of time with a profound apology. You were really too surprised by the sudden pull to be in any condition to be unforgiving. Besides, his quick thinking saved him from your feathery wrath.

You don't know how much time has passed, but the song has passed and the two of you are still dancing despite that. His moves are getting easier to predict even in the low lighting, and the jazz trills in your ears as his laughter makes your bones tremble, if that's even possible. Which, according to the fluttering sensation, is. Very much so.

This time you can hear the song end, but it doesn't seem like John notices. This new song starts out with a slow sax solo--and instantly he slows, so much that you nearly crash into him. Oh, guess he was paying attention. More than you, maybe.

He turns a bit, dancing you towards the rays of moonlight with gentle, edging steps. "There, you've got it, see?" He murmurs, easy to hear over the music because it's so far far away and he's so very very close. Both his hands have been holding your own separately, and you feel a little dismayed when he pulls one away. Then your breath hitches as he places his free hand on your waist, turning the slow dancing to more of a waltz. A rush of blood prickles and burns your face, and for the first time you realize that he's standing much closer than friendliness dictates. He wasn't even holding the girl this close. Your eyes flicker up to meet his, which you can actually see now thanks to the pale beams of light. The sapphire orbs are soft, meeting your own eyes easily. Somehow that makes your heart stop beating for a second.

The two of you remain like this for a while, he leading in a weirdly combined swing-waltz that somehow manages to work because it's him and he's perfect and you just tag along for the ride, wings poised behind you as you look down at your avian feet to keep track. He tuts you. "Dave, you can't look at your feet. Look at me."

"No thanks, Egbert," you mumble with a red face as you watch his feet smoothly move back and forth and you attempt to do the same with absolutely none of his grace.

You feel more than see the warm hand on your waist lift, and before you can question it his forefinger and thumb catch your chin gently to make you look up at him. It takes you by surprise, so you spend a good couple seconds frozen in mid-step with him as you look into the deep blue eyes that seem to have paralyzed you because really, you can't move. Not even if you wanted to. He's just so close, so alluring, the moonlight softens his features and yet cuts them somehow and--

He closes the distance and claims your lips with his own.

You're shocked enough that you don't pull away, still frozen as he kisses your lips. Then, slowly, your eyes close just as his did, and you return the embrace. You'd say it's timid, but that's not something you ever are. His lips are... soft. A little chapped, but not as badly as your own. And you can just barely taste him; he doesn't taste sweet, nor sour. He just tastes like... well, skin. Skin and John. And it's the last part that makes a noise catch in your throat as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss,  _toys_ with your lips, catches the bottom one between your own and gives it a gentle nibble that sets your mind buzzing. The jazz in the background is distant, unimportant now to either of you.

In a moment of clear-headedness you wonder when he wrapped his arms around you, and when your taloned fingers started lightly clawing at the back of his vest, but then it's washed away and he's kissing you and oh god  _that was his tongue he's using his tongue._ It's a little embarrassing how you're getting so excited, but you just can't help it. Because as soon as the tip of his tongue slips its way past your lips all sentient thought leaves you, and all that's left is him and the wonderful way he tastes just of him and nothing else and your lungs are on fire but you're so happy you could just die.

It ends as it began; a slow parting coupled with several smaller, dwindling kisses. Your lips knead eagerly against his languid ones, greedy for all you can get. When at last the two of you stop, you're left panting for air as he leans his forehead against yours. You open your eyes, and find him already staring at you with an unreadable expression. You try to speak, but your mouth is suddenly dry, so you swallow hard before trying to speak again. "What... was that?" It's ragged and breathless, but audible.

John remains silent, lips parted slightly as he stares into your eyes, seemingly searching for words. Then he abruptly pulls away, disentangling himself from you. His soft hand lingers for a second as he ghosts it over your own coarsely padded one... and then he turns, walking out the door and back downstairs.

And that leaves you alone, staring at the space in front of you where your best friend stood only moments before. And kissed you. And... then he left? Your elated mood wavers, then hurdles to the ground and shatters as your hands drop to your sides and your wings sink in the moonlight.

You still don't know what exactly happened when you muster the courage to go downstairs and leave the damn pub, headed home at last with heavy foot and heart. You don't look for John when you go.

He doesn't come looking for you, anyways.

 


End file.
